Differences

I am an oldest child. The Big Lug is a youngest. I am a planner (multi-branched, usually) and an achiever. He'd rather eat, have fun, or snuggle. I make lists. He flies by the seat of his pants. I like (but don't always impose) order. He flings whatever, wherever, and forgets about it.

Needless to say, it took us decades to learn how to live together in harmony. We each, of course, have taken on a bit of the other's philosophy - I don't immediately straighten every picture and he remembers about half the time to pick up his socks - but mostly we solved our problems when we bought a house big enough to give us each our space to either keep or neglect as time and personality demands.

His realm is the basement. I don't go farther than the storage side (just beside the bottom of the stairs) and then only long enough to grab staples out of the pantry (just inside the door). The washer and dryer are down there, and when I threatened to clean the room with bleach if he didn't at least vacuum, he took over the laundry detail. I even bought my own tools to keep upstairs because he becomes absolutely maniacal if I don't return what I borrow in the exact same place on his pile. Trust me, I do not go down there unless I have to.

Unfortunately, no one else wants to, either. So when people come over, we all congregate in the upper floors, my territory. This means I usually feel compelled to do massive cleaning, especially before the holidays.

This year, my inner child (who's apparently about three years old) is pitching a fit. "I don't wannaaaaa!"

These past few months have been about clearing away past mistakes, in finances and in the home. I've paid off several accounts, consolidated and substantially reduced others, and increased investment. I've had a giant yard sale and given away tons of things to charity, including furniture, but only those things I didn't need for function. And I have found that since I tend toward Traditional, Transitional, and Mission design, instead of the current - well, if style were a dog, mine would be a mutt - I have priced myself out of the market for more cohesive replacement furniture. I thought I could accept all that.

Until Saturday. I found a dresser - a 62"-wide, wave-front, 13-drawer beauty of a bureau, at my local Salvation Army. It was love at first sight. But since I was actually looking for a sideboard, and this was usable but bigger than I wanted (it would cover the heating vent), and a bit above my budget (I'd prefer free), I tore my gaze from the smooth grain of the drawer fronts (it flowed perfectly from one to the other) and the beautiful inlay down either side of the face, and I walked away to search the jewelry. Nothing there. I went back. No one had pulled the tag. No one was even paying my baby the least bit of attention.

I checked every dovetail, every brass, every square inch, inside and out. Maybe I could come back Wednesday, the discount day, I thought. But I knew if I came back and it was gone I would regret it horribly, so this oldest-child, anal-retentive list-maker impulsively grabbed the ticket, tore off the bottom half, and blew the budget all to flinders.

Two hours later, hyperventilating but resolved, I went back with the Big Lug's truck to pick it up. There was a man running his hand over the back, muttering something about original finishes and yellow pine, and then a swear word when he saw the "sold" tag. "Someone got a steal," he said to me with a shake of his head. "Thank you," I said to him, and then again only quieter.

When I got home, my son and husband unloaded and slid it into place. It looks amazing. I think it's the first really nice piece I've ever owned. But it's the reason I'm having a fit about cleaning the house - it's so exactly, perfectly right I want to toss every other stick of furniture and start over, building the entire living room (or even the whole top floor) around it.

But I can't - hence the frustration. Many years ago, I would have stripped the house (including my heinous, outdated kitchen) and damned the consequences. But the Big Lug has rubbed off on me more than I'd ever dreamed. What I once interpreted as lack of direction, of goals, is really ambition banked and waiting for the perfect moment to flare up into flame. Where I once saw irresponsibility I now see someone who keeps me (and him) as the priority, someone who doesn't waste time and energy on dusting and re-dusting when there's serious kissing to be done. In fact, for my husband, I (and not my plans or my demands) always come first - and so does he, for me. I must be patient.

The home I really want will happen - in my budget (mostly), and only when it's time. My kids will forgive me if I don't clean perfectly (they might not even notice since it's pretty hard to tell when a scruffy mutt like mine has even had a bath). No, all I really need to do is the best I can do, then fill in the rest with love.

That, thanks to my Big Lug, is easy.